


The Unknown Want, the Destiny of Me

by cherry_knots



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Disregards post-3x08 canon, F/M, In which Gilbert goes through with the proposal to Winnie and even to their own wedding, Mild Swearing, Which incidentally is when he finally gets his shit together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 10:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21408517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry_knots/pseuds/cherry_knots
Summary: For weeks, Gilbert has resigned himself to the impending inevitability of a future with Winnie in the distant city of Paris. However, he begins to realise that such a future might not be an inevitability after all - or at least doesn't have to be.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe & Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 127





	The Unknown Want, the Destiny of Me

**Author's Note:**

> (Title extracted from 'Sea-Drift' by Walt Whitman, 1855)

He feels suffocated, pressured from all sides, and yet terribly empty.

He tries to imagine himself as husband to a woman birthed in high society. Tries to imagine standing diligent and upright at the end of the aisle as the bride, gowned all in ivory satin and silk and imported fine lace, glides closer towards him, her father clasping her hand, closer towards a predetermined destiny that was carved in stone from the moment he first brought her to tea. Tries to imagine spending a lifetime with this woman, full of marital duty and domesticity and presumably lots and lots of children, till death do them part. Tries to imagine living away from everything he knows, everything he has familiarized himself with, everything that he has grown to love and cherish. A life with less adventure and agency and more obligation and fulfillment of the status quo.

No matter how hard he tries, he finds that he does not have the creative flexibility nor the expansive vigor of Anne’s imagination. He can’t make a single atom of these thoughts materialize. It is all beyond his mind’s capacity.

Like the detail-obsessed, highly perceptive young man that he is, he tries to categorize his emotions, tries to understand them a little better by methodically giving them labels. And if he can’t explain them away, he shoves them down, down into the obscure depths of his soul, like heavy stones plummeting to the bed of a river. With time, however, he gains better perspective, or at least some semblance of perspective. For example, his father’s death left him cold and barren, the internal lining of his bodily vessel glazed over with a perpetually thick layer of ice; his eyes a sky of painfully longing hazel, shedding snowflakes that don’t quite dissolve into real tears. He is closed away from the world, from other people, but most of all from himself. He refuses to confront his demons, the ones that linger in and taunt his mind like disembodied shadows with lives of their own, as they detract him too greatly from the earthly duties and obligations that he must serve.

Mary’s death, though in many ways a cruelly ironic and analogous parallel to his own father’s passing, draws out totally different emotions out of him. He pictures her soul as a myriad of butterflies, their wings crumbling at their very fringes, though still aching to take flight. Rather than attempting to shut out the pain as if it were festering outside his window and he was drawing the curtains shut on them, he feels it in every shade, every dimension, every tone and every stroke. It fluctuates and vibrates and ripples inside him, slowly stinging and shrivelling his heart by turns. This is a new wave of emotion that never before attacked him even while his father was dying, and eventually when he was dead. It is more intense and complex and thorough, and if his father’s death laid bare the fresh wounds that tore at his skin, Mary’s death – and even the days leading up to it – had slashed open those two-year-old scars with renewed, if not greater intensity and inclemency. It crushed and broke any form of hope or optimism he’d spent those years carefully building up again, left him disillusioned with the unfairness and lack of discriminatory streak that Death carried while drifting from mortal to mortal.

In addition to this, though, he finds that the living often provoke greater emotions than the dying or dead. There’s Bash, his razor-sharp wit and playfulness that augments his pre-existing lust for life. Miss Stacy, kind and intelligent and too worldly for her small-town neighbors, whose unconventional style of educating thrums and tugs at the strings of his eager academic mind, and prompts him to push against every social and mental boundary and barrier in order to become a better and more heightened version of himself. Winnie, highly mindful but not necessarily acquiescent of their society’s expectations and regulations, who makes his heart lightly flutter with mirth and felicity and intrigue. She is, for him, an escape and a safehouse, specifically for his own stitched-up, barely reconstructed heart, each individual piece hanging by a thread, one that fears letting in people and other things that threaten to shatter it into pieces again.

And then there is Anne. God, she makes him feel all sorts of things.

She is a vibrant and original soul. She gives soul to other souls. Her glistening, ardent cerulean eyes tempts and yearns and spurs everything around her, including himself. In every fiber of her being, from the wild carmine coils that cascades from her head to her snow-pale yet healthily rosy complexion, she constantly harbors an unbridled, fiery passion and impulsiveness; every lick of its flames spares nothing and nobody. Like him, she loves adventure. Craves it. She _is_ adventure. Ever since she’d arrived in this town and walked into his life two years ago, she’d made him feel more reckless and ready to act upon his own will.

Not that he never had a will to begin with, but the minds of the townspeople, limited by rural ignorance and austerity, more often than not forced him into the mold of the ideal gentleman, to present himself in a manner which they saw best fit. Her arms are like angel’s wings, alleviating the pain and hardships of the world while simultaneously rejuvenating his motivations and desires; yet occasionally underneath that layer of boldness and audacity he observes a flicker, the slightest hint of wistfulness and raw, ravenous desperation that runs deep and secret, far beyond his perceptive eye. He is endlessly fascinated and comforted and frustrated by her, she pushes and pulls him in all manners of directions, and uproots him from a strange existence in which he struggles to bring himself into a continual state of action and movement.

When it comes to the mere prospect of marrying Winnie, their wedding date looming fast over his head, he realises that he feels nothing. Not a single emotion. He feels as though he is drowning, the breath and life in him gradually being sucked out of his lungs, though ironically he is drowning in nothingness. He is nothing more than an empty vessel, awaiting the cogs of his future, already written for him, to be set into steadily ongoing motion. This is his life, and this will be his life for, well, the rest of his life.

It all happened so fast. Winnie’s father granting his blessing, the arrangements for the two of them to board a steamship, first-class seats, to Paris, his scholarship for the Sorbonne, the fitting of her wedding gown, the fitting of his own suit, the nicest he’s ever worn. The decorations, the service, the cake. He’d been telling himself that this is all that he’s ever wanted; a high-end education for a career that he loves, financial security, a beautiful wife with whom he could slip into easy conversations. It would all be so easy and convenient and comfortable. He wanted this, always had. _But did he really? Does he?_

In the weeks leading up to what would arguably be the biggest event of his life, he’s been plagued by frequent dreams that are similar in nature. One that stands out to him in particular is that moment in which he meets Winnie at the end of the aisle; the priest begins by asking if there are any objectors to the union that is about to take place. Just when it seems there are none, a deep silence sweeping over the chapel, a high, melodious voice suddenly cries out, “I object!” The people all turn and search for the source of those words just as the doors open and in marches Anne, determined and confident and delightfully authoritative, a crown of yellow flowers on a head of untamed red tresses. God, she looks so beautiful and iridescent. Then, unexpectedly, she reaches the podium and sweeps him off his feet – literally holding him in her impossibly strong arms – before rushing out of the chapel, leaving behind a confused bride and possibly a pair of irate parents. They’ll go wherever the spirits move them. In that brief moment, a rush of heady emotion emanates through him like firewater.

When he wakes up, the feeling has worn itself off, and he is hollow once again.

The morning of the wedding, he wakes up to slivers of colorless sunlight filtering through the chink of his almost-closed curtains. Then there’s Bash, clapping him on the shoulder and telling him that he doesn’t want to keep the girl waiting. His voice sounds as vacant and defeated as he feels, no matter how hard he tries to be happy for him, his best friend, his brother. It’s six o’ clock. The wedding’s in six hours, though the trip to Charlottetown will eat up some considerable time. When Bash leaves, he remains in his bed, sighs and trembles. He can’t do it. He can’t fucking do it. Yes, he can. He’s not a boy anymore. He hasn’t been one since his father left this earth. _You’re a man,_ he tells himself. _You better act like one. Can’t have her parents chasing after you in a whirl of fury. God knows what that’s like._ He certainly doesn’t want to know.

The train from Bright River trundles and rolls along the track through endless green pasture and fields, and he stares listlessly out the window thinking about all the people they’ve invited. Winnie, of course, has her own folks, many of whom are connections forged through their wealth and prominence in society. Then there’s his own company, friends and neighbors, his family: Bash, little Delly, the Cuthberts, and – regarding this with a prick of pain that strikes deep in his heart – Anne. It almost felt wrong, even dreadfully insulting to invite a girl who had rejected him earlier to his own wedding to another. Then again, it would seem wrong _not_ to invite her; she was family, and a very dear friend. Whether the romantic potential between them worked out or not, she would always be an integral part of his life. For better or worse.

He arrives at the Rose family residence, though he is strictly forbidden from entering Winnie’s room, where her bridesmaids are preparing her for the ceremony. The next few moments arrive in flashes and fragments, as if a reel of film has been chopped in random sections. A silver platter bearing a tray of cigars. _Smoke?_ Mr. Rose offers. _To burn off the pressure. Calm the nerves._ He declines. He’s never been much of a smoker, and he doesn’t intend to start now. Something about duty, upkeeping faith in God, upkeeping faithfulness to your wife (publicly, that is, as it needs not extend to your private life), and finally – good luck, wish you all the best, my daughter’s in good, reliable hands. A road that stretches through the busy streets of Charlottetown, then the chapel. A seeping dread strains him dry like a sieve; it’s happening, it’s finally happening, God almighty. Christ, what if he drops the ring? What if he somehow makes an eternal fool out of himself, right in front of all those crowds? There’s so many people seated in the pews. He believes – nay, knows – he’ll be sick. Before he knows it, the organ music has commenced. _Oh, no._

He’s standing in front of the priest, Bible in hand, clasping his hands nervously behind his back. He surveys the rows of guests, and his agonized gaze rests upon Anne, dressed nicely in a shade of cornflower blue with a string of pearls around her neck. She looks just as anxious and troubled as he, and he assumes that it’s because she sympathizes with him, being shrouded in such scrutiny and all. Then somebody coughs, and he whips his head around in time to witness Winnie approaching him, her bridal train trailing behind her, all smiles and beauty and grace, her honey-gold curls piled in a gloriously lush crown upon her head. She is certainly breathtaking, and the other people in the chapel appear to agree; her presence alone is both magnetic and electric. Then she’s standing before him, her soft blue eyes crinkled with joy; she’s brimming with it. So why isn’t he?

The priest drones on and on, offering up passages direct from the Bible, before those words, the same ones that often repeated themselves over and over in his dreams, are issued from his mouth: _Anyone who objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace._

Nobody moves or speaks. Anne remains firmly planted in her seat next to the Cuthberts. His breath hitches in his throat. _This is my life now._

Then comes the vows; he hears the priest, alright, but barely registers what he says, and when it comes for him to repeat his words, the words that will forever seal his fate, his future, he…he…

He freezes.

Everybody, from the priest to Winnie’s parents to their folks to his folks are all waiting for him to intone his wedding vows. He knows he can repeat them, _just repeat the damn words, repeat the goddamn words, what’s the matter with you,_ but somehow, for some reason, he is unable to. His throat is parched, his cheeks burning, his lips quivering, and his mind is trapped in a stock-still. He’s got so much going for him right now; he’s about to enter a marriage with a charming young woman who is endearing to him – and he to her – and they’re bound for Paris (Paris, of all places!), and he a successful medical career through the highly advantageous and prestigious pathway of the Sorbonne. He’s about to have it all. Never again will his heart be broken. Never again will he suffer through the ache of lacking consistency and permanence and stability in his home life, and his own life in general. Never again, never again. He’s going to have it all –

Except he won’t.

He won’t have the freedom to run around as he pleases. He’ll always be pressured by the imperious ladies and gentlemen of Parisian society, their noses upturned and their chests swelled up, to stand straight and keep in line with their expectations, their unspoken policies. He won’t get to travel and move around and expand his horizons, but stay stuck in one place, right in the heart of the modern bustle and commotion of Paris. He won’t have his old friends and family. He won’t have adventure. He won’t even be himself; he’ll be the man everybody, most of all Winnie’s parents, wants or always expected him to be. He won’t have _her_. The only reason why all of this, the wedding, Winnie, a future in a faraway place he is damn near completely unfamiliar with, could have easily never happened to begin with. Without knowing it, Winnie had become more of a second choice, a reserve, a form of cushioning to fall back on if things fell apart between him and Anne. He’d been unfair not only to himself, but to Winnie, more than anything else. Why is he doing this to him, to her?

The muscles in his body begin to loosen up, and his mind gradually clears again. Then, as if a spark has ignited deep within him, he jolts and startles, and the first thing he does is leap off the podium. He dashes through a sea of collective gasps and shocked murmurs, but ignores it all; he’s running further away from Winnie, further away from any possibility of a marriage between them, any possibility of a secure and comfortable future. He knows now that he wants none of it. What he wants, more than anything, is a future with happiness. He wants to choose, not settle. He wants to feel passionate rather than safe in where he ends up. He doesn’t want Winnie. He wants –

“Anne!” he calls out to her, stumbling towards the pew where she stares at him, eyes wide with bewilderment. “Anne!” Without thinking twice, he grabs her hand – wraps his large, calloused fingers over her dainty, delicate own – and drags her away from the protesting crowd. She herself is protesting, but he doesn’t notice; _Gilbert, what’s going on, I don’t understand, where are we going, why…but what about Winnie…why?_

“We’re going where the spirits move us,” he tells her, and for the first time a grin spreads wide on his face, like the dawn breaking out through a previously dark sky.

They’re at the train station, all dressed up, having seemingly left the others far behind. The other people waiting for the train peer at them quizzically, wondering what two kids in formal attire are doing, waiting for a train in the middle of the day. He still has her hand in his, and he feels relief course through his veins. Simple, utter relief. Right now, he has nothing but Anne. But he supposes that having Anne and nothing else is better than having it all except for Anne. She’s staring down at the floor, her gaze averted from him. Momentarily, a white-hot, searing flash of anger scorches his heart, leaving a ghost of a mark. Why isn’t she happy? Then a wave of guilt washes over and softens him. He shouldn’t think that way, it was awfully harsh of him to do so; he did just pull her away without asking if she was alright with letting him –

The train arrives, and they’re jostled inside; they’re in the carriage, side by side, Anne’s head swivelled towards the window and he adjusting the cufflinks of his suit. Winnie’s father would probably want them back, but it’s too late now – the train is already coughing and spitting into motion. As a mildly bored yet evidently tense silence passes between them like a transparent cloud of mist, it occurs to him that he never gave the train attendant their tickets; he’d never even purchased them to begin with.

Then Anne, having not quite looked at him since they’d hightailed it to the train station, directs her gaze towards him for the first time. “Why did you do that?” she asks. Not a question. A vague demand.

“I love you,” is all he can pathetically muster.

She looks vexed. Not just vexed – angry, furious. Bursting at the seams with simmering ire. “How could you do this? Where are we supposed to go? What about Winnie?”

_What about Winnie?_

A current of hot tears begins to surface in her eyes and scald her cheeks. “I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Matthew and Marilla. Or any of my friends.” She crosses her arms and releases a shivering, distressed sigh before turning her back on him once again – just as she’d done so many times in the past.

_Oh, God,_ he thinks to himself. _What have I done?_

The sensation of icy cold water being poured over him causes his eyes to snap open and his head to jerk upwards slightly. Against his pillow. Suddenly, he is back in his bedroom, though it’s still dark out and beads of sweat are descending down his temples and spine, his nightclothes soaked with a salty scent. He pushes himself up, tries to gather in his head the remnants of the already-dissipating dream he’d just had. There’s still hours before the wedding begins in Charlottetown. He’s relieved – he wasn’t stupid enough to abandon Winnie at the altar, or to force Anne to converge her own individual path with his all because of his all-consuming, selfish love for her. He still feels the sharpness of his inner trepidation pierce his skin like minuscule thorns all over him. None of this changes the fact that he is due to be married to Winnie come noon.

He inhales sharply, closes his eyes, bites his lip, before releasing his breath in heavy torrents. _Oh, God. Fuck._ What on earth is Winnie’s father going to say if he learns that his protégé, the one he promised a place in the Sorbonne and his daughter’s hand in marriage, no longer wants anything to do with either?


End file.
